A large oak stands firmly anchored to the ground on land that once belonged to my parents. It is so tall and its limbs spread so wide that when a person stands under it during a shower, she is sheltered from much of the rain. Whether it’s wise to be standing there during a thunderstorm is a different matter but the tree is rather like a large, living umbrella.
The tree has seen many changes. The busy street with cars streaming by a few feet from its base used to be a dirt track. Then, a farm wagon, a horse and buggy or a rider on horseback occasionally went by. Many other trees surrounded the oak in those days, trees taller and older than he. Sumac thickets sprang up here and there, wild rose bushes, honeysuckle vines, blackberries, with only the narrow dirt trail heading east and west past the tree.
One day a man cut some trees south of the oak and built a small house. A few more horses and wagons and riders came down the road. Rabbits and ‘possums, squirrels and groundhogs hid among the brambles or behind the oak and watched the goings on. After a few years, the small cabin came down and someone else built a larger white house with a front porch.
More trees were cut to make room for more buildings but somehow that oak escaped the ax and saw. It grew taller and sturdier, its limbs stretched out, sheltering wild creatures beneath it and many bird families and squirrels within its branches. At times, when the moon sailed across a velvet sky and the wind shredded high-flying clouds, an owl came and sat in the oak. Then the other residents stayed still and silent.
Horses gave way to horseless carriages. Model T Fords and farm trucks clattered down the road in front of the tree. The occasional horseback rider sometimes cantered past, but he was becoming a rarity. More trees were cut, the road was widened and paved. Yet, the umbrella oak stood firm and strong, anchored to the ground with more than a hundred years worth of roots.
The oak has withstood many storms and strong winds. Lightning has popped all around it. Lesser trees, a maple and a catalpa succumbed to some of Oklahoma’s fierce winds but the oak grabbed hold of the ground and wouldn’t let go.
Several families have come and gone in the white house beyond the front yard gate. The tree has seen the yard alive with activity, the comings and going of life within the house’s walls. Cars, not horses and buggies any more, parked under the tree and in the driveway behind the house when family and friends gathered in times of celebration and in times of sorrow.
To me, the tree is an example of strength and courage. In drought, it survives because its roots run deep. When the weight of ice storms bring down other trees, the oak waits for the sun and keeps standing. The tree is a model of integrity which the dictionary defines as uprightness, honor, and strength. If trees could talk, what stories would it tell; what changes, what human experiences has it seen? But it doesn’t say a word. Oh, sometimes I can hear it sigh as the wind stirs its branches but it chooses to keep its secrets. The tree leaves the telling of stories and the ramblings of imaginations to people like me and with the oak as my inspiration, that isn’t hard to do.
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